A wail of displeasure filled the car.
‘Sophie, stop it.’
The window to Sophie’s right cried with rain as she twisted and turned in her seat, hating hearing her parents argue.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘It’ll be alright. Trust me. I have plans.’
‘It’s hard to trust you when our business is failing.’
Her parents’ voices ratcheted up with every statement.
‘Stop, Mummy. Stop, Daddy.’ She raised her little voice as best she could to match theirs.
‘Please, Soph—
Her mother’s plea cut off by the piercing squeal of tyres.
And all that was left was silence.
Then rhythmic banging.
Sophie fought to wake, strained to come to the surface, to rise from the nightmare, which no matter how many times she had it, never got any easier. Any less painful.
She forced her eyes to open and focused on the strip of sun coming through a crack in her curtains to light up one of the wooden floorboards.
The banging was still there. Not part of the dream. But happening below her window.
She rubbed her palm over her damp cheeks, swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself up out of bed, determined to find out who was making that infernal noise so she could put a stop to it.
She padded to the window, pushed aside the curtains and glanced down to see Alexander’s back hunched over a nearly finished bookshelf. ‘Really? Are you kidding me?’ Sophie reached for her bathrobe, shrugged it on and tied it securely. ‘From one nightmare to another.’
She checked the time on her mobile phone. Just after seven-thirty. Barely sparrow’s fart.
She thrust her feet into her slippers, then trudged down the stairs while trying to figure out the Alexander situation. It was kind of him to build the shelves for her, but it didn’t feel right. To have a stranger helping her refresh her business in between planning to destroy the village she lived in? Something didn’t add up.
Sophie paused at the little mirror she kept on the storeroom wall. Placed there so she could check her teeth or that her hair was in place before greeting a customer. She grimaced at her reflection. Her eyes were red and puffy from the nightmare. Her hair, still in a ponytail from the day before, had bunched to the side with random hairs sticking out. And a long pink line marked one cheek as a result of her face being squashed against a crease in the pillow.
If she wanted to frighten Alexander off, she just needed to head outside in her current state.
She rolled her eyes at herself as she pressed her fingertips around the contour of her eyes, hoping for a miracle de-puff, then released her ponytail, scraped her hair back and tied it up in a messy bun. As for the crease? There was no fixing that but Sophie patted her cheeks a little to colour-up her pallor.
It’s like you care about what he thinks of you.
Ugh, whatever. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. It wasn’t what he thought about her that she cared about, it was how she felt about herself. Self-respect and all that. At least that’s what she was going to tell herself, and that little voice whispering otherwise could bugger off.
The banging outside stopped.
Good, that meant she could greet him without scaring the wits out of him and causing him to knock a nail into his finger.
She opened the door and the ‘Good morning’ on the tip of her tongue disappeared. Along with any moisture in her mouth.
She ran her tongue around her mouth. Yep, dry as a bone. And she couldn’t blame the two beers she’d had last night either. Not when Alexander was standing shirtless all of a metre away and the muscles she’d sensed existed the day before were now very much apparent. And – as much as she hated to admit it – glorious to boot.
His head turned to the side, as if sensing her presence.
Say something. Otherwise he’ll think you’re having a perve.
Which she most definitely was not. Not really. How was she to know he was about to become half-naked from the time it took her to leave her room and come downstairs? And her reaction to said half-naked body was… natural. Normal. Completely okay.
‘Alexander.’ His name came out a croak. She covered her mouth and coughed a little. ‘Sorry, just woke up. Always takes a while for the mouth to warm up.’
She cringed. Did that sound dirty? Just a bit? And did he have to focus on her lips quite so intently?
‘So, uh, what are you doing here?’ She pushed aside her embarrassment, which was in no way tinged with lust. Alexander was lust-worthy, that was for sure, but he was also here on official business – the kind she wasn’t on board with – and she had to keep that front and centre whenever dealing with him.
‘Pass me that plank over there.’ Alexander pointed to a piece of wood next to her.
She bent over, picked it up and passed it to him.
‘Thanks.’ His eyes flicked down towards her chest, widening for a split second, before meeting her gaze. ‘And, er, you might need to rearrange your bathrobe.’
She glanced down to see her robe had gaped open revealing her nightie – all lace and silk and cleavage. ‘God, sorry.’ She spun round and rearranged the material.
‘Nothing to be sorry for.’
His words were deep, raspy… and made her want to run upstairs, find her thick winter ankle-length coat and wear it until the day he finally left town. And not because his reply was creepy – the opposite. If she thought him attractive and he thought her attractive… well, that would take the situation from tense to potentially explosive.
No blurring the lines.
No engaging with the enemy.
Not that he seemed so enemy-like. Not after last night. The previous evening had been pleasant. Good conversation, a few drinks, followed by Alexander insisting on walking her home in that gentlemanly way of his.
‘I know you can take care of yourself, but my mother would never forgive me if I let a girl walk home alone at night,’ he’d said when she’d started to tell him she was capable of walking herself home.
That vulnerability she’d sensed earlier had returned, and she couldn’t say no. Not when he was trying to be a good son. Not when she’d have given everything and anything to have a mother to do right by.
Sophie turned back round to see Alexander hunched over the frame of the bookshelf, nailing in what would eventually be the back of it. His concentration completely on the task at hand and not remotely on her. Good. That meant she’d misinterpreted his tone. There was no interest there. Just a man being polite to ease her embarrassment.
Typical gentlemanly Alexander behaviour. She hoped his mother was proud of him.
She picked up another plank and readied it to hand to him. The sawn edges were smooth, crisp almost. Like he’d taken great care with the work. Not just knocking them up in order to get the job done.
‘How do you get it all looking so even? I took a closer look at the bookshelf you made yesterday and it’s perfect.’ She took in the immaculate workspace he’d created. Nails in a plastic jar. A small pile of off-cuts. Everything had its place. ‘And I can’t see any signs of a screw-up or wastage.’
‘Measure twice. Cut once.’ Alexander took the plank from her with a nod of thanks. ‘That’s what the construction manager at this site I worked on when I was younger told me to do. So I did exactly that. Except I measure three times.’ His lips flattened out. ‘Turns out you can double-check your work and still get things wrong.’
Sophie had the distinct feeling he was talking about their situation. So, he’d come to Herring Cove thinking he’d done his homework? Thinking he had all he needed to pull the whole deal together? And she’d put a spoke in his carefully laid out plans?
Or was Alexander talking about life in general?
‘Yeah well, life doesn’t always go the way we want. Can’t prepare for everything. Can’t expect everything to go to plan. And when it doesn’t you just have to keep your chin up and figure o
ut another way, right?’ She picked up another piece of timber and ran her thumb pad over a small knot, enjoying its roughness against the soft flesh of her skin. ‘You worked on a construction site? You hardly seem the type.’ Sophie cursed herself. ‘Sorry, that sounded kind of rude…’
‘Don’t worry, I’m getting used to it.’ Alexander smirked, before banging in another nail.
‘Smart-arse.’ Sophie grinned. She liked how he wasn’t afraid to pull her up. It was as if knowing she wasn’t selling had loosened him up, and she was seeing the real Alexander. Not the smooth-talking besuited version he showed the world. ‘It’s just when you waltzed in here you didn’t exactly look like the type of man who would know how to build a bookshelf, and I can’t imagine the heir to the Fletcher Group needing “builder” on his CV.’
Alexander set the hammer down and sat on the ground, his legs stretched out before him, his elbows anchoring him to the ground. He rolled his neck round slowly, then reversed the stretch, a low moan escaping his lips. ‘I forgot how hours of being hunched over can play havoc on your muscles. You’re going to owe me a massage after this.’
An image of her hands running over Alexander’s oiled-up back flashed through her mind. Her cheeks heated as an area low in her stomach tightened involuntarily. ‘Once my revamp’s complete and I’ve more customers, I’ll send you a voucher to some fancy London masseuse.’
‘You’ll need to sell a lot of books… or you could just do it yourself…’ Alexander’s lips rose as he winked.
Sophie’s pulse leapt to her throat as her heartbeat quickened. Was that flirtation? Was Alexander flirting with her? More importantly, why did she not hate the idea? She swallowed hard and forced her attention to the bookshelf. There was no way Alexander was flirting, at least not because he was interested. Flirting was probably second nature to him, something that couldn’t be helped. Another way to turn a ‘no’ into a ‘yes’.
‘‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she pressed. ‘Did you really learn those carpentry skills of yours working in construction?’
Two spots of pink flared high on his cheeks. He crossed one long, muscular leg over the other and tipped his head to the blue sky. ‘I did. For a bit.’
Sophie waited for Alexander to elaborate, but instead he closed his eyes and lifted his shoulders high before dropping them.
‘You must’ve enjoyed it then, since you were so quick to volunteer your services to me… Is building what you’d rather be doing?’
Alexander’s eyes opened and met hers. Their expression was startled, like Alexander couldn’t believe someone was seeing him, the real him. ‘You’re a surprising one, Sophie. I didn’t expect you to be… you.’
Sophie didn’t know what to say. How to react. The words warmed her. Made her feel… special somehow. Like to Alexander she wasn’t just ‘Sophie Jones whose parents passed away’ or ‘Sophie Jones whose boyfriend ran off with every penny she had’. She was ‘Sophie Jones, the unexpected’.
‘Well I’d hate to make your life too easy. Wouldn’t want you thinking you’ve got me all figured out.’ She grinned as she folded her arms and tapped her foot on the ground. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question. Spit it out.’
Alexander’s smile returned as he let out a ‘ha’ of laughter. ‘If you ever want a job you come see me. You’re like a dog with a bone.’
‘Don’t think calling me a “dog” is going to distract me either.’ She wagged her finger at him. ‘Spill.’
‘I’ll spill for a cup of tea? I’ve been out here since the crack and I’m parched. Forgot to bring my water bottle.’
‘Fine. I’ll even make you Marmite on toast. Or there’s honey if you’d prefer. Can’t have my free labour keeling over from hunger.’
‘Marmite’s perfect, thank you.’ Alexander pushed himself up and held out his hand to Sophie. ‘Hand up?’
She paused. This time two days ago she’d have told him she didn’t want his hand. Didn’t want anything from him. But now?
Slowly he had begun to change her mind. Showing through hard work, and commitment to the promise he’d made to build the shelves and help revive the bookshop, that he was a man of his word. Someone who – if she lowered her barrier – she could learn to like. Maybe even learn to trust.
Sophie took his hand. His skin warm against hers, yet rough. It told her of time spent doing manual labour, not tucked behind a desk working on ways to take people’s lives away from them in order to build the Fletcher empire.
He pulled her up like she was light as a feather, the momentum unbalancing her. She collapsed against his bare chest. And didn’t move. A mix of embarrassment, shock and his scent – lemony, clean, yet fresh-sweat salty – rooted her to the spot.
Could a man smell any more manly?
‘Sorry, Soph.’ Alexander fingered a loose strand of her unbrushed morning hair and tucked it behind her ear. A small gesture, but too friendly. Too… intimate.
Pull yourself together, girl. ‘It’s all good. It happens. No harm no foul, and all that.’ She took a step back, another, then turned her back to Alexander and made her way inside trying not to think how nice it had felt to be pressed against him.
How… right.
***
Alexander folded his arms across his chest. Now that he was out of the sun, away from his tools, he felt… naked. Which he technically was. Well, half was. Yet the way Sophie had looked at him, her eyes flaring wide, her pupils dilating. The way her perfectly shaped lips had parted, just a hint, then closed again as her heart thundered against his chest.
He released a long, quiet breath. Despite having dated a string of ‘suitable’ women, yet to meet the right one, he’d always believed he’d know a moment when he felt one. And he’d just felt one. Sophie had too if her refusal to stop buzzing about the storeroom, combined with the way she couldn’t look him in the eye, was anything to go by.
‘Here you go. Toast and tea.’ A plate of two buttery bits of toast with a scraping of Marmite were thrust before him, along with a mug of perfectly beige tea. ‘There’s sugar in that bowl over there if you fancy it. Hope you don’t mind my adding milk. Habit. Usually only make it for Ginny or Nat and we all have it the same.’
‘Looks perfect, thanks. Shall we sit out in the shop?’ He’d spied the sun shining on the cosy reading area and it called to him. Seemed like a good place to tell her a little tale about a young man who’d found his passion, only to lose it to obligation and expectation.
‘Sure, of course. After you.’
He didn’t insist on Sophie going first. Didn’t want to make the tension that had sprung up between them thicker, more complicated.
He placed his plate and mug on the coffee table, then relaxed into the armchair, running his hands over its wooden arms. ‘I love this old-school Scandinavian style. I see some companies are replicating it, but there’s nothing like the original.’
Sophie settled into the chair opposite. ‘They belonged to my grandparents. They gave them to Mum and Dad when they were married.’
‘That’s an interesting choice of wedding present.’
Sophie’s fingers played over the age-worn fabric. ‘Not really. Mum and Dad had sunk all their money into the shop, and if my grandparents hadn’t bought them the sofa and chairs they’d have had nothing to sit on.’
Alexander took in the bookshop with fresh eyes, a new respect. No wonder Sophie refused to sell. It was steeped in history. Part of her. Everything she’d ever known. Everything she wanted.
He picked up the pink and red rose-decorated mug. The heat from the liquid burned its way through the delicate china. The slight sting focused him. ‘What you said out there? About me being a builder? You were right. If I’d had my choice I’d have ‘builder’ on my CV. I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands. Unfortunately, being a Fletcher meant I never stood a chance at being who I wanted to be.’
He glanced up from his tea to see Sophie’s gaze had left her own lap to meet his.
And he wanted to give her more. Wanted to tell her everything. If only, for one moment, he could share what it was like to be a Fletcher. The pressure. The expectation. And something told him he could confide in Sophie. That it wasn’t only her secrets, the details of her life that she held close. That she could be trusted to hold his secrets close too.
He thought back to when he was young, full of hopes and dreams, believing he could make a difference to the world. Believed he could make a difference to the Fletcher Group. Before reality was spelled out to him and his hopes and dreams had been tucked away, boxed up tight.
‘When I was eighteen I spent a summer on a building site working for a charity that created homes for families who were homeless.’ He paused, unsure whether to go on. How to go on.
‘Is that some sort of thing you had to do? A way of keeping the Fletcher’s name in good stead?’ Sophie folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow. ‘So that if anyone were to say “you destroy homes” you could come back with “no, we help build them”?’
Alexander laughed. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t care that Sophie’s eyebrow dropped, then drew together angrily with its mate. She couldn’t have gotten the situation any more right.
‘What’s so funny about that? Companies do it all the time. Take part in charity in order to improve their appearance.’ She folded her arms across her chest and held herself tight.
‘What’s funny is that you’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s a very big part of why my father had me work there. His father had him work on a site as part of his training. The theory being you couldn’t run a business built on building if you didn’t understand what it was like to work on a site. My father took that theory and decided to expand on it. He could have had me work on one of our sites, but it was more important that his son was seen to be doing good in the community, so he had me spend a summer building a home for a family who needed one. It was great PR. Except it backfired on him.’
The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove Page 8